Dark Space - Marianne de Pierres [97]
Now he must negotiate.
Delegating the job of ambassador to the Principe’s sorella, Marchella, puzzled the second-Godhead. But he allowed the question to subside under the tide of his akula.
While his logic-mind puzzled, his free-mind cartwheeled through rough sketches of buildings with nuance and flair. ‘Please join me for a meal, Marchella Pellegrini.’ Tekton modulated his voice seductively as he sat himself at a table near the window.
‘Thank you, God-Tekton, but I have eaten already.’
‘Then I will be offended.’
Marchella hesitated, unsure at the brevity of his response.
Tekton noticed the play of tension along her musculoskeletal frame, and admired the dense, compact look of her. Like a basement with load-bearing joists, Marchella looked like she could bear weight. Tekton found that alluring—imagining what he could build atop her.
‘I need a guide through your foods.’
She stepped forward immediately, peering under serving covers.
‘Please sit, Marchella. I may wear less clothing than you are used to, but I am quite harmless.’
Marchella seemed doubtful, but seated herself opposite. ‘This is kranse bread. It is our most successful crop and is very high in protein. The eggs are quark, and have an unusually dry texture—again, high in protein. The sea cucumbers are crisp. The roe is from the Tourmaline Islands and may be saltier than you are used to. I recommend that you drink it with wine.’
At her gesture Tekton took a minute mouthful of roe, followed by a swallow of the frothy red liquid served in a crude glass decanter. He must remember to bring his own dining accoutrements on outworld visits, he told himself.
The wine, surprisingly, was sweetly palatable.
Marchella warmed at his expression of pleasure.
‘Araldisian Reds are our most famous export, after our minerals, God-Tekton. We have numerous varieties. Though the grapes are grown in climate control, the Araldisian soil that nourishes them makes for a piquant flavour.’
‘Please join me, Marchella.’
Marchella nodded and sipped heartily from the glass that his moud proffered her. The red fluid spilled from one corner of her mouth.
Tekton was amused by her indelicacy. If Marchella Pellegrini was indeed typical of her world, then Araldisian women were some of the most primitive he had encountered, despite their pretensions to nobility. Again his akula throbbed. It somehow seemed in keeping with the rawness of the planet.
He allowed the wine to relax him, enjoying the heightened glow it brought to Marchella’s crimson skin. He sent a direct logic-mind instruction to his moud. Make sure we have wine for the tour.
After dining, they left the embassy in a small liveried AiV, peeling away from the landing docks cut into the imposingly violet ranges. By the time they had skimmed low to a more intimate viewing height, Marchella had shared the full decanter of wine with him. She began to lose her reserve, enthusiastically pointing out the more significant landmarks.
They drank steadily through several carafes, until Tekton judged her to have completely relaxed her guard.
‘And what of your family’s operations, Marchella?’
She gestured at the AiV pilot to sweep lower over a large scar in the ground. ‘Below is Pellegrini A, and to the south, Pellegrini B. Each produces 60,000 tonnes of ore per thirty-hour day. The ore is conveyored back to Dockside and stockpiled. The Pellegrini conveyors are some of the longest known. The mining belt has the perfect geography and climate for our conveyors, flat and hot—no frost to damage the machinery. Subsidiary feeders from the smaller mines join the main conveyor all the way along.’
‘The process is very primitive.’
Marchella sighed. ‘Yes, but it works. Our society uses some gro-technology to maintain its infrastructure but we found it to be too expensive on the mining scale. We are still a young planet.’
‘And youth is so seductive, my dear. What of the non-Pellegrini mines?